‘Fresh as the Flowers’

The Thinker - Lucy Mason is earning her BA in English at the University of Nebraska at Omaha. She has been photographer for the Omaha Central Register (2018-2022), hired for events such as the Healthy for a Lifetime Conference (2019, 2021) and has placed at the Nebraska State Journalism competition (2022), and won first place at Skills USA Regional (2020). Lucy is the Creative Nonfiction Section editor for UNO’s 13th Floor Literary Magazine (2024).

Fresh as the Flowers

When my brother, Jordan, and I landed in Raleigh, staggering noise overwhelmed us. The sound of static from the airport shifted into the blaring bustle of the city. Cars packed narrow roads, pedestrians flooded the sidewalks and coffee shops, and construction barriers sent us on distracting detours. 

So much had changed. 

I eased our rental car through near-impenetrable traffic, fingers stiff and clammy at the wheel. My thoughts gushed in a frantic cycle, fueled by overtired caffeine jitters. We had so much to do before our return flight in two days.  

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered. 

“It’s no worse than Vegas traffic.”

“But we’re not in Vegas. I thought I was getting a break.”

“Do you want me to drive?”

“And where will I pull over?” I cried, motioning to the blockade of cars surrounding us. 

The clock blinked 11:02. In only six hours, we needed to meet our stepmom at the mortuary. She had assigned us the task of deciding what our dad would wear when we laid him to rest the next day. She wanted us to feel involved but, in truth, we hadn’t felt like a part of their family since our mom moved us across the country ten years earlier. 

“Okay, get out your phone,” I said. “Should we find the hotel first or the mortuary?”

Jordan scoffed. “We are not going to waste this entire trip by waiting around all day.”

“But we need to know where they are.”

“We have hours before we can check into the hotel and even longer until we have to be at the mortuary.”            He shook his head and typed into his phone. “Let’s just go see the old neighborhood now. It’s only… hang on… forty minutes away.” All these years and he still had the address of our childhood home memorized. 

He slowly navigated us out of the smothering city traffic to where the trees formed a deep green barricade on either side of the highway. Thick, fluffy clouds drifted over the treetops in an incredible haze of blue. I had forgotten the clouds. In southern Nevada, the dusty land stretched for miles until intimidating mountains cut across the horizon. Infinite clear skies loomed overhead in constant blinding brightness. Brilliant clouds like these stood no chance beneath the rays of the searing desert sun.

“Okay, we want the next exit.”

I merged into the far right lane and watched for signs of home, my fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “You know I’m knocking if it looks like someone’s there.”

“I won’t stop you,” Jordan said. “Just don’t be too disappointed if they don’t want a complete stranger barging into their house.”

“Hey, come on. I’m no stranger,” I grinned. “I left my name and a Sharpie self portrait on my old bedroom wall. Clear as day. I’m sure whoever lives there now will recognize me.”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course. Silly me.”

But as we got off the highway, my excitement turned to confusion. Chain-link fencing and concrete barriers lined the roads rather than the old safeguarding trees. Streetlights overlooked intersections where quiet stop signs once waited. Stacks of modernized apartment complexes towered over the renovated land where we used to play in vast, free forests. I felt more lost in my old hometown than I had in the city. 

“It should be… here,” Jordan said, rolling down his window as I pulled up to a sleek, three-story black and white townhouse. 

I drew in a sharp breath, scanning the pristine green lawn and raised flower beds. Our old house had been completely obliterated, replaced by this contemporary monstrosity. 

My thoughts flooded with dim memories and images from ratty, torn and retaped photographs–back to when our shabby family home stood on this plot and our parents loved each other. I remembered the splintered white paint on the wrap-around porch peeling away in long, biting slivers. Virginia Creeper clung to the rails, twisting its tendrils through each wood post. Gridded windows lined the cracked walls; some still held their decorative green shutters but most had fallen off or hung by a desperate screw. 

Our dad had boasted that the day he purchased our mom’s engagement ring, he also placed a large down payment on the old colonial house. Together, our parents intended to refurbish it back to its original beauty–to sand the porch, to repaint the walls, to fix the landscape and plumbing. But over time, they forgot their promises to each other and to us, allowing our family to weather and fall apart, just like the battered house. 

Now my gaze swept across the giant, tinted windows of the expansive building. They reflected the darkening clouds overhead and the perfectly-placed cobblestone walkway, which led to our rental car. I wondered if other marriages had ended–if other children had watched their parents deteriorate–over the remodeling of our childhood home. Maybe that’s why it had been demolished. 

I caught Jordan’s pale expression in the reflection. His jaw twitched back and forth, grinding his teeth. Despite the impending funeral, I had hoped this trip would motivate him and remind him of happier times. I cringed at the thought of dropping him off at his lonely studio apartment in two days; his apartment where he hid away and slept for days and days at a time.

I cleared the lump from my throat and gave him a nudge. “Let’s just go for a walk.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and unbuckled his seatbelt. 

The sidewalk guided us away from the stereotypical new builds and into an older, untouched neighborhood. Here, the shaded cement cracked and crumbled, lifted by the free spirits of the sprawling trees. I let out a breath, eagerly recognizing some of the aged houses. 

We walked to the end of the block and turned onto a hidden sideroad. As children, our dad had walked us down this road to play at a private neighborhood park. I nicknamed it “Splinter Park” because of the unfinished wooden play structure and the sharp wood chips at the bottom of the slick metal slide. Every visit ended in tears.

Jordan and I rounded the corner, unsurprised to find Splinter Park torn down. In its place lay a grassy clearing, surrounded by a quiet shelter of trees. 

Jordan left the path and walked to the center of the clearing. I followed, feeling the cushion of spongy grass through my shoes. He dropped to his knees and let himself fall back into the greenery with a deep sigh. 

“I hope you checked for poison ivy before you did that.”

“You worry too much,” he said and patted the grass at his side.

“What about ticks?”

He scowled at me. 

“We’re not in the desert anymore,” I grumbled and slumped down into the damp grass. 

My eyes lifted to the incredible vibrant green leaves that scattered over stretching limbs, blocking the stormy sky. They swayed in the breeze, rustling a soothing chorus while blurring and distorting my vision. My eyelids felt heavy, drifting shut for longer and longer with each blink. But the marshy grass soaked through my shirt, and I leapt to my feet. 

“What?”

“Get up,” I said, trying to rub the seeping water stain from the back of my pants. “This grass is soaked.”

“It’s fine.”

 “Are you serious? You’re going to be drenched. And cold.”

“You should practice your breathing,” he said and let his eyes shut. 

I crossed my arms, about to tell him what he could practice, when the familiar chirp of an old friend caught my attention. At the edge of the grassy clearing, a male cardinal stood watching me in a brilliant spark of red. 

“Jordan,” I whispered, nudging him with my shoe. 

He ignored me. 

I took a few silent steps closer to the beautiful bird. I had always loved cardinals. They fascinated me; their vibrant color, their echoing song, the wedge-shaped wisp of feathers sprouting from their heads… 

My foot snapped a twig, and I froze. The cardinal cocked his head to one side. Then he took off in a flutter of red to hide amid the leaves. I peered into the shadowed branches, hoping for another glimpse but settling, instead, for the sound of his trill. 

“Jordan, you missed it,” I said over my shoulder. A giant raindrop plopped on my forehead and rolled straight into my eyeball. “Ugh. Great. Now it’s raining.”

He sighed and scuffled to his feet as the clouds burst in a sudden downpour. I held a hand over my eyes and squinted up at the overarching tree limbs. They caught much of the rain, offering us some protection from the surrounding storm. 

Jordan trudged to my side, wiping mist from his cheeks. “What’d I miss?”

“Oh, there was a cardinal. It stopped singing when the rain started.”

“Bummer,” he said, looking out toward the trees. “If you weren’t so worried about rain and ticks, I’d say we should go for a little walk in the woods.”

I smoothed my dampening hair out of my face. “Yeah, that sounds like a great way to get lost. We should probably head back–”

“Hey, look,” he said, crouching in the grass again. The back of his sopping clothes clung to him, stained various greens and browns from the waterlogged field. He returned with a tiny, yellow flower. “Do you remember these?”

The flower had five glossy, paper-thin petals on a long, spindly stem. 

“Oh, it’s a buttercup!” I knelt to find one for myself. Several hid in the longer tufts of grass, but I noticed many more sprinkled beneath the trees of the reaching forest. “Man, I completely forgot about these.”

“Me, too.” He twirled the stem between his fingers, watching the petals swirl into a yellow blur and ricochet the falling rain drops. 

“Remember that game kids used to play at school?”

He looked at me. 

“Maybe you were too young when we moved,” I said, using my wet sleeve to hopelessly wipe rain away from my eyes. “We would take one of these and hold it under someone’s chin to see if it reflected gold sunlight onto their skin.”

His eyes seemed to flicker to life. “I think I do remember that!”

“Yeah, if it did, that meant they would grow up to be rich.”

Jordan laughed, and the years splashed away with the rain. His shining smile swept the dark circles from beneath his eyes, and his skin glowed healthy and vibrant. He looked up to the shrouded sky, allowing the rain to drizzle through his dripping hair and wash away the despair. I watched him glow with fresh purpose and life. He was still just a kid–goofy and filthy and happy. 

I grinned, and, just to see, I held the buttercup under his chin. But the storm clouds cast us in shadow, leaving no sunlight to reflect gold. 

Jordan smirked. “Well? Am I going to be rich?”

I tossed the flower on top of his head and walked toward the tall, beckoning trees.

“You are rich.”

Jay Peter-Robison began writing stories when she was eight years old. She enjoys writing poetry and stories about nature and family relationships. She also loves to hike and spend time outside with her husband and three young children.